Tis the season to reflect on all the work that our hands have found to do during the past year. The Christmas tree is just a symbol of working together and it is always the outcome that matters not the process.

Making mistakes is not in the resume of the Gracious Mistress of the
Parsonage. That was, up until now.
I am not known as Mr. Perfect by any stretch of the imagination. If
there is a mistake to be made, I have already made it or it is on my
“Bucket List.” I have made a lifetime profession of making mistakes.
Sooner or later, I am going to come to the end of this and stop making
mistakes. I suppose I will have to live as long as Methuselah to
achieve that goal, and believe me, I do not plan to live that long,
only long enough to come to the end of all of my mistakes.
I must say I was making progress until this past week. Actually, it was
not my mistake that highlighted the week, which made it remarkable.
My wife does not make mistakes, but this past week she made a blunder of
all blunders. Believe me; I am not smiling except on the inside where I
am actually laughing hysterically.
It is that time of the year when Christmas decorations magically appear
in our very gracious and merry domicile. The procedure along this line
is that I am to just stay out of her way. It is amazing what she can do
when I am out of her way!
I suppose this year she was a little behind schedule, which is rather
unusual for her and she made the blunder of all blunders by asking if I
could help bring in the Christmas tree.
I remember the last time I brought in the Christmas tree. At this point,
I will not give any details only to say that somebody had to go out,
purchase a new Christmas tree and then clean up the mess from the old
Christmas tree. Enough said along that line.
Whether my wife forgot about that incident in the busyness of the season
or whether she thought I had grown out of that kind of thing.
What most wives do not understand is that every man reaches the height
of maturity at the age of 15, if lucky. It does not matter how old a
man gets, he is always 15 in heart and mind, particularly mind.
In the beginning of our marriage journey, we had live Christmas trees
for Christmas. Through the years it became more prudent to buy an
artificial Christmas tree. And so, the artificial Christmas tree was
packed away in some corner of the garage.
I say garage, but it is not garage in the typical sense of the word. I
am not allowed in the garage without being supervised. Years ago, my
wife transformed our garage into her woodworking shop with all of the
equipment needed for that kind of work. Since I do not work with
woodworking projects, I am not allowed in that area.
When she supervises my visit in her “workshop,” I am not allowed to
touch anything. And by anything, she means, “Don't touch anything!” She
visualizes this instruction by placing both hands on her hips and
staring at me with one of “those stares.”
I followed her into that sacred space, “her workshop,” to assist her in
taking the Christmas tree into the living room.
All was going very well as we extricated ourselves from her “workshop,”
and navigated into the living room. I might mention that the Christmas
tree was well packaged in a very heavy box and I had the heaviest end.
Then it happened. I am not sure how it happened, I just know it
happened.
For some odd reason the Christmas tree box decided on its own to jump
out of my hands and make a dive for the floor. There was a loud
crashing sound and a lot of yelling on both sides of the box. I am not
quite sure who was yelling louder, my wife or me.
In the midst of it all I heard my wife scream, “Don't move.”
When all the screaming died down and the dust settled, we were able to
examine the damage. For one, the box seemed broken beyond repair. The
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